Sirenland Writers Conference Blog

That’s one good way of describing the effect of this darkly transporting debut novel by Hannah Tinti, who previously wrote the short story collection “Animal Crackers” and is editor in chief of One Story magazine. Another description comes from a simple dictum that Ms. Tinti once gave to an interviewer: “Write something that you would like to read yourself.”

However basic these characterizations are, they amount to a kind of novelty right now. Recently in “The Story of Edgar Sawtelle,” and now in “The Good Thief,” the reader can find plain-spoken fiction full of traditional virtues: strong plotting, pure lucidity, visceral momentum and a total absence of writerly mannerisms.

In Ms. Tinti’s case that means an American Dickensian tale with touches of Harry Potterish whimsy, along with a macabre streak of spooky New England history. Though Ms. Tinti grew up in Salem, Mass., as did Brunonia Barry, author of “The Lace Reader,” she needs no witchy gimmickry to fill her book with magic.

“The Good Thief” gets off to a curious start. It describes how a man arrives at St. Anthony’s orphanage and ties his horse to a hitching post. Then he kisses the horse, wipes his mouth on the back of his hand and walks into St. Anthony’s to find himself a son.

“Men often came for children,” Ms. Tinti writes, without a whiff of unsavory insinuation. “Sometimes it was for cheap labor, sometimes for a sense of doing good.” The taller and stronger boys are as popular as the adorable and malleable 2-year-olds, but those of in-between age tend to be left behind.

“These children were usually ill-tempered, and had little to offer but empty stomachs and a bad case of lice,” she continues. And then, as the book’s hero makes his intriguingly odd entrance: “Ren was one of them.”

The visitor isn’t interested in Ren. Ren is missing one hand, which has left him ill-suited to farm work. So no one who sees his deformity has ever wanted to choose him. The absent hand is more of a curiosity and totem (this book revolves around many discreetly enchanted places and things) than a source of suffering. “Ren simply looked at his right hand and thought about its match waiting patiently somewhere in the world for him to retrieve it,” Ms. Tinti explains.

Along comes a stranger called Benjamin Nab. (Dickens’s ghost apparently helped Ms. Tinti dream up names.) And he, unlike the other visitors, wants Ren immediately. By way of explanation Benjamin spouts a wild tall tale of how he and Ren, whom Benjamin identifies as his brother, lost their parents to Indians dressed in women’s nightgowns. Then he produces a leather pouch, pulls out what appear to be two scalps, and declares, “That’s all that was left.”

This is how Ren’s life as the thief of the title begins. Benjamin is of course a con man. And he knows how handy a piteous-looking lad can be. “This isn’t a child,” he tells a crony, Tom, one of the book’s many beguiling and hapless lowlifes. “This is a gold mine.” Or, as he tells Ren, “That hand of yours is going to open wallets faster than any gun.”

“Here, take something that will help your poor, miserable life,” Benjamin exclaims, tossing 5 cents (the same 5 cents he has just stolen) in hopes that passers-by will also give Ren money. “Satisfaction guaranteed,” Benjamin tells a crowd of farmers, after Ren has demonstrated the so-called effects of “Mother Jones’s Elixir for Misbehaving Children.” But when these schemes fail, as they are wont to do, Benjamin and Tom drag Ren into something much dicier: grave robbing. Somehow Ms. Tinti retains the essential playfulness of a novel that had its origins in the grave-robbing idea.

One of the grave robbers’ accomplishments is to unearth a burlap bag that sits up after it has been exhumed — and turns out to contain a large, not very dead man who is named Dolly and wears a purple suit. “I guess you’re with us for good,” Benjamin says reluctantly, as he realizes how hard it is to dispose of a murder victim who wasn’t supposed to be dug up.

Also within this book’s markedly eccentric universe, and moving through the story with a logic that is strictly Ms. Tinti’s: a dwarf; a landlady who shouts everything she says; a mousetrap factory that eerily dominates a place called North Umbrage; and a copy of “The Lives of the Saints.” In addition to being a tale of strange and unpredictable adventure, this is a book about faith and redemption.

And it is traditional enough to pull all these pieces together into a coherent tale. Ms. Tinti shows no interest in arty ambiguity. By the end of “The Good Thief,” good thievery and bad are differentiated. Ren finds out who he is, where he came from and how he lost his hand. The most unlikely pair of characters turn out to be blood relatives. And a poetry-reciting character is said to have “a talent that surprised everyone but interested only a few.” Ms. Tinti has a surprising talent of her own. It will interest many.